Ducks in a pond,
Sheep grazing in the fields,
Cool breezes frolicking,
Through green tapestries.

Bucolic, pleasing
Peaceful to the mind,
Sights that shift through
Varying facets of light.

A house stands
At the far end of the village,
Waymarked by an orange larch,
Perpetually shedding its leaves.

Superficially baronial,
Glorious and sublime,
The larch warding of all ‘evil’,
Home to a man and his wife.

On drench autumn evenings
The lady strolls about with ease,
Her soul resigned, composed,
Her mind full of indelible ache.

The train runs breathlessly
Upon the sandstone viaduct,
He crushes a stray larch leaf
Between his strong thumbs.

She knows his ‘incentives’,
Her docile heart excuses,
His payload exceeding
He strikes out his frustrations.

His brawny hand comes
Harshly down upon her,
A tailpipe for his frustration,
A hidden mark quelling her desires.

Written by : Waranga Gunasekara

Image Courtesy:

Cover Image – https://shorturl.at/fTNQv